Apologies: I'm sooo sorry for not updating my other stories. I got the idea for this story this morning, at my bus stop, when a black butterfly fell and landed in front of me. I didn't want to touch it, because then it couldn't fly, so I could only watch as it hopped/walked it's way toward the gutter in the street. There, it fell in, and I couldn't fit my hand through the gutter to help it.

Explaination: This story is less descriptive, and more meaningful than my other stories. I'm thinking of it as my poem-story, because that is what it is. I could condense it into a poem, if I wanted. This is my first story that isn't suspense.

It was a humid summer morning, on the first day of the school week. A girl was sitting by a school bus stop on New York, and was seemingly normal from the waist up. Below the area of artificial normalcy were two small, shriveled up legs hanging in the air before a large, gray, electric wheel chair.

She was staring listlessly ahead of her, seemingly not hearing the calls and jeers of her schoolmates and neighbors. Her blue eyes were slightly rheumy, perhaps from not blinking frequently.

Her hair was brown, and slightly curly. It fell down in waves and shielded her other facial features from view of the public.

"Hey, I wonder if she'll start drooling soon!" one frizzy-haired male said obnoxiously, peering around the back of her wheelchair to see her reaction.

But of course, the crippled girl didn't move. Her reaction, or lack there of, just made the mob laugh harder at her pale, unmoving form.

Little did they know, with every little imaginary, emotional, mental punch they threw her way, the emotional damage inside her increased. It was all she could do to hold her tears back. The rheum appearance of her eyes was actually due to unshed tears, and the hair in her face was to hide her frown.

So deep into her suicidal, hurting, frightened thoughts she was that she didn't see the slightly titled form of a butterfly fall from the sky. Just like her, it was beautiful but unable to do what it was put on the earth for. Its wings were large, black, and shined the same blue as her eyes in the twilight.

It caught her gaze, however, when it flapped its wings feebly on the cement side walk before her. With every car that went by the major street lining the ghetto, it's wings pressed themselves against its body unwillingly and it shuttered. It's shutter looked like a death chill to her.

Astounded by its distress and bravery, the young girl sat in the chair she lived in, livid at her tiny crippled body and how it couldn't even lean forward to help a helpless being. She rolled her wheelchair back and away from the insect, afraid that she might accidentally run over it.

Of course, "The Mob," as she thought of them, immediately noticed the small flicker of movement by the girl who never moved. Then they noticed the large butterfly. They couldn't help but to notice the similarities between the matured girl and the dying butterfly, but only voiced the bad.

"Oh, it's her soul-mate," they jeered, as if they were one person, and threatened to kill what was just like her. This was an even bigger blow to the emotionally abused girl, who now knew, just knew in her mind that in killing the butterfly, they also hated her so much that they wanted to kill her too.

To the hurtful, cold schoolmates, it was just an effort to have fun and laugh at something they were uncomfortable around. Because to them, she wasn't a person, capable of thought and feeling, but just a thing, like something unpleasant they would find underneath their shoes.

On the surface, they didn't get the satisfaction of a tear, or clenched fists. But on the inside, another part of the girl's untouched innocence fell away and became part of the hurtful blackness.

The Mob, angered and annoyed by her listlessness, decided to do something about it. They could take away the one thing she was affected by, the one thing that gained her reaction. The butterfly.

The red-headed Frizz-Boy grabbed one handle of her electric wheelchair and a dark-haired, vapid boy grabbed another. Together, pushing her chair like in inhumane robot of destruction, before the girl could protest, they used her wheelchair and her crippled body against her to kill the one thing she ever understood, and could ever relate to. The one thing she felt connected to.

That day, her soul died, and she became a shell of a being, affected by all the unkind souls in the world. Later, when she would be thirty, she would go by a handicapped homeless man in a wheelchair and jeer at him, not even noticing their similarities.